Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02]

by Patterns of Love

  Only, I did not realize, until I was standing in his bedroom doorway, looking at him in his nightshirt, that perhaps it was inappropriate for me to do so. Beth, I felt so strange inside. It was an ache really. Nothing like I have ever felt before. I only knew I could have gone on, standing there, looking at him, forever if it had been possible.

  Have you any advice for me, my friend? Or must I simply endure the broken heart which I know is to come?

  Sincerely,

  Inga Linberg

  Nine

  Dr. Swenson closed the door to Hattie’s bedroom, then turned toward Dirk, who was standing in the living room, awaiting the physician’s verdict. “I am sorry, Mr. Bridger. There is nothing more I can do for her. I have left laudanum to help dull the pain.”

  “How long?”

  “The timing is in God’s hands, young man. I cannot say for certain. But when her time comes, she will be free of the pain she is suffering now. That should give you some comfort.”

  Dirk leaned both palms against the fireplace mantel and stared into the flames. He felt both rage and despair. His mother was dying, and the best the doctor could do was offer platitudes. Platitudes that weren’t welcome.

  “Dr. Swenson?” Inga said softly from the kitchen doorway. “Will you stop by the parsonage and tell my father about Mrs. Bridger?”

  “Of course, Miss Linberg.”

  “Tack.”

  The physician stepped over to Dirk and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry,” he repeated.

  Dirk didn’t reply. The lump in his throat was too big. He could only nod his head.

  “I’ll return tomorrow.” Dr. Swenson walked out of the living room and into the hall, followed by Inga.

  Dirk heard them talking in muted voices before the front door opened. Cold air whisked down the hallway and into the living room, and he knew the doctor had departed.

  He turned his back to the fire and stared at the Christmas tree, standing near the front window. It seemed years since he and Inga and the children had brought it back, but it had only been a week. His ma had been so pleased with the evergreen, proclaiming how wonderful it made the house smell. She’d sat in her chair by the fire and watched as Martha and Suzanne, with Inga’s help, decorated the tree with bits of ribbon and strings of popcorn.

  Dirk had almost believed his ma was going to prove the doctor wrong. For a couple of days, she’d looked better, seemed stronger, than he’d seen her in a long time. Then, just when he’d been getting used to her seeming improvement, she’d taken to her bed, no longer able to hide the pain she was in.

  Drawing a deep breath, he walked to her bedroom and opened the door. The lamp was turned low, the window curtains drawn.

  “Come in, son.”

  The lump in his throat threatened to choke him. He swallowed hard before entering the room. When he reached her bed, he took hold of her hand. “Ma.”

  Feebly, she tugged on his hand, urging him to sit on the bed beside her. “Did I tell you I got a letter from Margaret’s cousin, Allison Trent? Only family Margaret had in the world, other’n us, after her folks died. Nice lady, Allison Trent. I met her once, back ’fore Suzanne was born. Real nice lady.”

  Dirk didn’t know what Margaret or her cousin had to do with anything, but his ma seemed to want to talk about it, so he was ready to listen.

  “Mr. Trent’s some sort of diplomat. They’ve been livin’ in Europe for years.” She turned her head on the pillow. “Is it snowin’ again?”

  “No. The sun’s out.” He started to rise. “You want me to open the—”

  “Don’t go,” she interrupted, her tenuous grip tightening.

  “Okay. I’m not goin’ anywhere, Ma.” He settled back onto the edge of the bed.

  Hattie met his gaze. “She said they’ll be comin’ for a visit in the spring.”

  “Who?”

  “Allison Trent. Margaret’s cousin. She and Mr. Trent will be comin’ to see the girls.” She sighed, glanced toward the window again. “I wish I could’ve seen her again. Margaret was mighty fond of her. The two of them were always writin’ back and forth.” She closed her eyes, then whispered, “I’d just like the Lord t’give me till Christmas. That’d be enough for me now. Just till Christmas.”

  Her words made him angry, and he was unable to hide it from her. “If you’re askin’ God for more time, why not ask for old age?”

  “Dirk…” She waited until their gazes met before she continued. “Don’t strain against the will of God so. You’ve lived off the land too long not to understand the meanin’ of the passage that says everything’s got its season, and everything under heaven’s got its own purpose. It says there’s a time t’be born and a time t’die, and I believe it. It’s my time, Dirk. That’s all.”

  “But it’s not your time. You oughta have another twenty or thirty years. You’re not old yet.”

  Hattie sighed deeply. “You know what else the good book says in that Scripture?” Her fingers tightened, squeezing his. “It says there’s a time t’get and a time t’lose. A time t’weep and t’laugh. And there’s a time t’love, son. It says God’s made everything beautiful in his time. There’s love and beauty all around us.”

  He knew she was seeking some way to comfort him, to make her dying not seem so wrong, but it wasn’t working. He didn’t want to hear what she was saying any more than he’d wanted to listen to the doctor’s banalities.

  “Maybe I’ve been wrong,” she whispered, glancing away from him.

  “About what?”

  “I always thought it best t’let my boys discover what life had in store for ’em for themselves.” She looked up. “But my time’s runnin’ out, Dirk, and if I’m ever gonna say what’s in my heart, if I’m gonna be able to help you, I’m gonna have t’say it now, ’fore it’s too late.” A note of urgency entered her voice. “We don’t always have t’go lookin’ elsewhere for happiness, son. Sometimes, it comes knockin’ on our own door. All we gotta do is just open that door and let the happiness in. This farm, these girls of John’s and Margaret’s, they’re your life now.”

  “You know I’ll take care of ’em, Ma.”

  She sighed again, and her voice returned to a near whisper. “Yes, son, I know you’ll take care of ’em. But I want more for you. I want you to recognize the happiness that’s starin’ you in the face. Don’t you see?”

  He’d wanted more for himself, too, but he’d ended up on this farm instead. Of course, now wasn’t the time to repeat those thoughts to her. Not now. Not with her dying.

  “If you clutch that bitterness to your chest so hard, son, there’ll come a time when you won’t be able to let it go, even if you want to.”

  “I’ll be okay, Ma,” he answered. “Martha and Suzanne and me, we’ll all be okay. They’ll never want for anything. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “I know that’s what you believe,” Hattie responded. “But you’re still not hearing me, son. Please hear me.”

  “Ma, I don’t know what-”

  “I brought you and your brother up to trust God. I’m not sure when you chose to look elsewhere for the answers in life, but you won’t find ’em anywheres outside Christ. I promise you that.”

  Dirk glanced away from her earnest gaze, uncomfortable with how it made him feel.

  “I said a moment ago that you need to recognize the happiness that’s starin’ you in the face. But you need to know there’s no real happiness if you don’t have the Lord in your heart and put him first. Everything else ends up meaningless without him.”

  Dirk looked at his mother. He wanted to say something that would give her comfort, that would reassure her. Only there didn’t seem to be any such words.

  She returned his gaze for several heartbeats. Then, with another sigh, she closed her eyes. He watched her for a long while before realizing she’d fallen asleep.

  Unbeknownst to Dirk, Inga had been listening from the doorway. She’d heard what Hattie had told her son. She’d also realized that he
didn’t understand. Her heart ached for him.

  She moved into the room on silent footsteps, making her way to the foot of the bed. He seemed unaware of her presence.

  “Mr. Bridger?” she whispered.

  “Ma’s asleep,” he said without looking at her, his voice a monotone, revealing not just his weariness but also an emptiness of spirit.

  “I think you should talk to Martha.”

  “About what?”

  “She is frightened. She knows her grandmamma is dying. She needs your comfort.”

  Suddenly, his eyes blazed with anger. “What am I supposed to say to her?”

  Tears burned Inga’s eyes, and her throat ached. “Tell her you love her, Mr. Bridger. That would be enough.”

  “Would it?” He stood.

  “Ja, it would.”

  He headed for the door. “I think I’m the wrong person for the job, Miss Linberg.”

  A few moments later, the back door slammed closed behind him.

  “Inga?”

  She looked toward the woman on the bed.

  Awake again, Hattie was watching her with pain-filled eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay on after I’m gone. The girls are gonna need you more’n ever.” She paused, then added, “So’s Dirk.”

  Inga slipped to the side of the bed. She took hold of Hattie’s hand and leaned in close. “I will stay, Mrs. Bridger. As long as your son wants me to. As long as I can be of help. I promise.”

  “You love him.” It wasn’t a question.

  Her chest hurt. “Ja, I love him.”

  “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

  “He is angry with God. He is angry with himself.”

  “Remember a couple weeks back, when I told you Dirk was dyin’ inside ‘cause of all the dreams he’d had to give up? I thought there wasn’t any hope for him t’find what he’s been lookin’ for. But I was wrong. He just doesn’t know what it is he’s supposed to find. He’s chasin’ the wrong dreams. The good Lord’s got somethin’ better in mind for him.”

  Inga smiled sadly. “If I could give him his dreams, I would. I will pray for him. I will ask God to help him.”

  “You’re a lovely young woman. You’ve brought joy into this house like it hasn’t seen in ages. I wish…I wish I could’ve lived long enough t’see you and Dirk together. I believe God brought you to our home for Dirk and not me or the girls. The Lord’ll finish what he started.”

  Inga hadn’t the heart to disagree with Hattie. Why not let the woman die in peace, believing her son would find happiness without traveling the world over first? Inga was certain it was only wishful thinking, but if Hattie believed it, what would it hurt?

  Dirk’s mother closed her eyes. “You think I’m a foolish old woman, but some things are made clearer when your time on this earth nears its end. You’ll see.”

  Hoping Hattie was right, Inga smoothed the blankets around the woman’s shoulders.

  Hattie opened her eyes again. “Promise me you won’t give up on him. Promise me that, and I’ll ask nothin’ more.”

  “All right. I promise. I won’t give up on him. Now close your eyes and get some rest.”

  “There’ll be plenty of rest where I’m goin’.” She turned her head and gazed toward the window. “Open the curtains for me, will you, Inga? I’ve a mind to see some sunshine. Pity it’s winter. In the spring, I can see daffodils through this window. Margaret planted a large bed of bulbs there about five, maybe six years back. Right pretty when they all start bloomin’.”

  Inga hurried to pull back the curtains as asked.

  “Sure hope I get t’see one more Christmas.”

  Outside, sunlight glittered over a crystalline landscape. Inside, the wintery bright rays cast dozens of little rainbows onto the bedroom ceiling and wall, thanks to the teardrop prisms hanging from the shade of the bedside lamp.

  “Pappa says the rainbow is a promise from God,” Inga said when she saw the reflected lights on the wall. “You have no daffodils, Mrs. Bridger, but see how many promises you have been given?”

  But Hattie had fallen asleep without seeing them.

  His ma was right. Dirk was bitter, and he was hanging onto that bitterness for all it was worth. Didn’t he have a right to feel that way? His dad was sick for years before he died. His brother and sister-in-law were killed while still in their prime. Now his ma was dying, too. The only family left to him were two little girls that he didn’t have the foggiest notion how to raise, and he was saddled with a dairy farm that he hated.

  And Inga was right, too. It was his duty to talk to Martha, not hers. Trouble was, he didn’t know how to offer the child comfort when he felt so comfortless himself. But he reckoned he’d better try.

  He returned to the house, determined to do the best he could. When he opened the back door and stepped into the kitchen, he was greeted by the excited cry of his niece.

  “Look what I’m makin’, Unca Dirk!” Suzanne exclaimed as she showed him a piece of bright yellow cloth.

  “What is it?”

  Martha answered without looking up from the fabric she was cutting with scissors. “We’re makin’ daffodils for Grandma.”

  “Daffodils?” He glanced toward Inga.

  “Your mother expressed a wish to see the flowers again. The children and I thought we would surprise her with some.”

  Dirk shrugged out of his coat, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. “That’s real thoughtful.”

  “You look cold.” Inga’s pale eyes were filled with compassion. “I will get you some coffee.”

  “Thanks.” He followed her with his gaze as she rose from her chair and went to the stove. Then, while Inga poured the coffee, Dirk turned to his nieces.

  Little Suzanne was full of smiles and excitement over their latest project, and he knew she hadn’t any real concept of what dying meant. But Martha, she had to understand. She had to know it meant she would never see her grandma again, just like she’d never seen her parents again.

  Looking now at the older girl’s wan face, he knew she’d been crying, and he understood that she was more than sad. She was scared.

  He drew a deep breath as he crossed to the table and pulled out a chair next to Martha. “Your grandma’s gonna like these,” he told her.

  The girl nodded but kept right on with her cutting, her mouth pursed in concentration.

  “This is gonna be hard on all of us. We’re all gonna miss her.”

  She looked up, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears.

  Tell her you love her, Mr. Bridger. That would be enough.

  He cleared his throat softly. “Martha-”

  “Are you gonna die, too?” She hiccuped a tiny sob.

  Dirk opened his arms. “Come here.”

  She almost fell off the chair in her rush to do exactly that.

  A moment later, he was holding her against his chest. “I’m not gonna die, Martha,” he whispered as he stroked his hand over her hair. “I’m gonna be right here, takin’ care of you.” He glanced up and saw Inga watching them.

  Tell her you love her, Mr. Bridger. That would be enough.

  He gave her a small nod, as if she’d actually spoken. Then he whispered, “I love you, Martha. I love you and Suzanne, and we’re gonna be all right, the three of us. I swear to you, we’re gonna be all right.”

  Strangely enough, he almost believed his promise. For just that moment, as he watched Inga smile gently at them from across the room, he felt a spark of hope.

  When Inga opened the door the next morning and saw her parents standing on the porch, she felt a great flood of relief. Until then she hadn’t realized how heavy her burden of worry for the Bridger family had become.

  “Oh, Pappa, I’m so glad you are here.” She kissed his cheek. Then, fighting unexpected tears, she embraced her mother. “Mamma.”

  “We have come to see Mrs. Bridger,” her pappa said. “Dr. Swenson brought your message yesterday.”

  Inga nodded. “She will be glad you have come. Let
me have your coats, and then I will take you to her. Mr. Bridger is out in the barn, but the children are in with their grandmamma now.”

  A few minutes later, she led the way to Hattie’s room. “Mrs. Bridger, my parents have come to call.”

  The ailing woman turned her head on her pillow. “Reverend and Mrs. Linberg.” Her voice was weak. “What a nice surprise.” She smiled. “Do you see what my granddaughters have made for me? A garden of daffodils.”

  It was good Hattie had explained the patches of yellow and green fabric which had been pinned to the walls and the curtains. Only a very few of them resembled flowers. But it hadn’t mattered to Hattie. She’d been delighted with them when she’d awakened this morning and discovered them there.

  Bernadotte Linberg crossed the room to admire the cheery display, then she looked at the children. “This is a wonderful gift you have given your grandmamma.”

  “It was Miss Inga’s idea,” Martha volunteered.

  Her mother glanced up. “I am not surprised.” Then she asked the girls, “Will you show me how you made them?” She held out her hands. After only a moment’s hesitation, Suzanne and Martha slid off the foot of their grandmother’s bed, took Bernadotte’s hands, and accompanied her from the room.

  Inga had seen similar scenes in the past, and she knew this was her mother’s way of leaving the pastor alone to pray with Hattie. As her father pulled a chair close to the side of the bed, Inga stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door. Then she turned and followed the children and her mother into the kitchen.

  Martha was showing Bernadotte the paper pattern they had used to trace the flowers onto the fabric. “Miss Inga made these, but I did all the cuttin’.”

  “Will you show me?” Bernadotte asked again.

  Martha glanced over her shoulder.

  Inga nodded. “You know where I keep the sewing scraps.”

  Martha darted out of the kitchen, Suzanne not far behind. Inga smiled as she listened to the thunderous footsteps on the stairs.

  “How are you faring, dear?”